


Tangled in a Silver Braid

by LotusFlair



Category: Rusty Quill Gaming (Podcast)
Genre: Dwarf Culture & Customs, Dwarves, Gen, Hair care for dwarves, Spoilers, braiding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-01
Updated: 2020-01-06
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:41:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22038730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LotusFlair/pseuds/LotusFlair
Summary: The delicate art of braiding a dwarf's beard as seen through the eyes of one Zolf Smith.
Relationships: Feryn Smith & Zolf Smith, Hamid Saleh Haroun al-Tahan & Zolf Smith, Sasha Racket & Zolf Smith, Zolf Smith & Oscar Wilde
Comments: 26
Kudos: 114





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Many a night I saw the Pleiads,  
> Rising thro' the mellow shade,  
> Glitter like a swarm of fire-flies,  
> Tangled in a silver braid.
> 
> \-- Alfred, Lord Tennyson

It's cliché but true that the first person to teach him how to braid hair was his mother. He was ten, practicing on their most patient dog, Agatha, when she caught sight of him and chuckled fondly at his exploits. When the strands slipped between his fingers for the last time, he grunted in frustration, but gave Aggie a gentle pat before traipsing over to his mother's open arms.

"What're you braidin' that ol' dog for?' she asked, gently.

"Feryn's beard's comin' in an' he was practicin'," he said. He quickly pointed at his bare chin, showing his mother the faintly blond whiskers starting to sprout. "So should I since mine'll be comin' in shortly."

He said it with all of the pomp and circumstance of a confident child, expecting his mother to coo over his journey into adulthood. Gertenz Smith, however, never went about things the way other mothers, and other female dwarves, did in their little mining town. Her smile was kind, but sad. Even as an adult he could never quite place that smile, though he wondered if he ever accomplished the same expression since he favored her more in looks than he did his father. She recovered quickly, inspecting his chin with a keen eye before tickling him behind his neck and ears.

"Alright, then, my young dwarf, why'd you give up on your pet project?" she asked, a sly wink in her eyes as she reveled in her own wordplay. It passed right over Zolf's head as he showed her his plump, stubby fingers.

"My fingers are too clumsy, Mum," he moped.

"Nonsense, Zolfie. They're learnin' same as you," she said. "Bein' nimble takes time."

A quick hug, a kiss on the forehead, and she led him back into the house for lunch. She sat opposite him and, while he ate his sandwich, began to untie the braids of her hair and beard. Zolf watched, mesmerized by the cascade of amber waves. It was rare that he ever saw his mother without her braids already done and pinned back as she went about her day.

"I know Aggie means well, but if you're to learn braiding, lovey, you'll need a proper teacher," she said. "One who can at least tell you what's right and wrong."

The sandwich half-eaten and quickly forgotten, he ran around the table and quickly pulled up a chair for his first lesson. Over the course of several hours, she guided him through the basics of braiding while telling him stories about family members he'd never met and a dwarven culture his family seemed distant from for reasons he couldn't understand. There were everyday braids for everyday work, braids to indicate marital status, formal braids, informal braids, and mourning braids. By the time his father returned from the mines, Feryn in tow, Zolf was excitedly questioning his mother about her great Uncle Bophurus and his unfortunate courting braid incident with her great Aunt Margolaine. He didn't realize he was braiding her hair without thinking, too caught up in her stories to worry about his clumsy fingers.

***

His father, Hirald, was a gruff man. Not unkind, just stoic in a way that kept Zolf from being as close to him as he would've liked. He often caught him watching when he was practicing his braids either on his mother or Aggie, much to the dog's annoyance. Zolf, in turn, attempted to spy on his father when he groomed his beard before going to the mine. He watched as his father gently brushed his hair, easing out the tangles before quickly and efficiently creating a long, single braid that he then rolled up to his chin and pinned in place.

"It keeps the dust from gettin' all over," he said one day, startling Zolf from his silent observation. Stealth had never been one of Zolf's strengths, even as a child. His father had seen him in the mirror and waited, but since Zolf thought himself quite the rogue in his efforts to watch, he'd kept quiet. Hirald saw the moment for what it was and, though he maintained his blunt exterior, opened the door for his youngest child to walk through with his questions.

"Does ev'ry miner do that?" Zolf asked.

"No," Hirald said, a slight grin forming as he watched Zolf scrutinize the bun. "I'm jus' a very vain dwarf."

Zolf smiled and Hirald ruffled his son's hair. Instead of pushing past the moment, Hirald gave in to those bright, curious eyes and undid his beard. Zolf watched the blond hair, so much like his own, fall to the floor. Dwarves rarely cut their beards and those that did usually had to for good reason, or bad depending on the nature of the dwarf in question. Hirald's beard was exceptionally long, a lifetime's worth of growth and experience Zolf could only imagine gaining.

"Dad?"

"Best get some practice in. You'll be doin' this soon enough when you come to the mines too," he said. Zolf paused, his enthusiasm falling away at the idea of going to the mines with his father and brother. More and more, he found himself staring out at the water, watching the fish jump and the boats skimming along the surface. There was a pull, he felt it in his chest, to go towards the water, but he couldn't express what that meant to him. Not to his mother, not to his brother, and certainly not his father.

He realized he'd been too quiet for too long. Hirald was staring at him, silent concern written all over his face. Shoring up his energy, he smiled for his father and got to work on the long train of hair that would one day adorn his own face.

***

Feryn taught him how to braid while looking in the mirror, a skill he struggled with as his eyes and hands decided to work against each other for the longest time. At eighteen, he finally had enough growth to justify some braiding. Feryn, all of five years older, took it upon himself to drag his little brother into the bathroom and guide him through a complex, French-styled, braid he'd learned from one of the girls he was courting in town.

"Eyes up, Zolf. Up! Up!" he teased.

"I c'n do it jus' fine lookin' down!" Zolf fired back, infuriated more by Feryn's smile at his anger.

"I'm sure you can," he said. Gripping Zolf by his shoulders, he forced him to turn back into the room. Then, he squished Zolf's pouty cheeks and gently made him took into the mirror again, ignoring his eyes burning with annoyance. "An' I'm sure yer countin' on some lass or lad of your choosin' to give that mop o' hair a good tug, but you can't have a neat braid if yer chin is gettin' in the way."

"It's neat enough," Zolf said, wishing to be anywhere but here. Feryn seemed to think he knew Zolf so well, but there was very little his older brother had gotten right about his wants and desires. They'd been arguing about going into the mines. They'd been arguing about Zolf sneaking off to the river boats and about his casual conversations with some of the Meritocratic naval officers who'd passed through town a few days ago. Mostly, they'd just been arguing. "Can I go?"

"Got somewhere ya need ta be?" Feryn asked. His tone was friendly, but even Zolf could see the hurt in his eyes. The arguments had taken a toll on Feryn as well. They'd never fought this much growing up and yet it was clear that they were headed in two different directions no matter how hard one tried to pull the other towards their destination. And Zolf suddenly saw the lesson for what it was, an olive branch.

With a heavy sigh and a genuine smile, Zolf said, "I suppose not."

Feryn's eyes lit up. "Oh, knots! Lemme show you this trick Widalia taught me!"

***

It was because of Feryn that he learned to make a braid of mourning.

When they pulled them from the cave-in, bleeding and broken, Zolf's first conscious thought was of his brother. He'd pushed him out of the way as the support structures came down and the last he'd seen of him were his sad blue eyes before the world went black. Now, with daylight practically blinding him, he could see Feryn's body laid out, motionless and silent. He staggered over against the protests of the healer, falling to his knees at his brother's side, cradling him in his arms as tears fell freely. He called his name, begged him to wake up, but Feryn stubbornly refused to answer.

Days later and he stood at the mirror, mostly healed except for the nightmares, and quietly made up his mourning braid. According to his mother, a dwarf should separate their beard into top and bottom sections. The top section was further divided into three smaller braids, each with a black ribbon woven within, that were then braided together and tied with a black circlet. The braid sat atop the bottom half of loose hair. He'd gotten up early to do it, certain that it would take him longer than more practiced dwarves. When he finally emerged for the funeral, his eyes were red and brimming with tears but the braid was perfect.

Feryn was worth it. He deserved someone who cared enough to put the time and effort into such things. He deserved a better brother than Zolf.

***

There weren't a lot of dwarves in the Meritocratic naval forces, but that didn't stop them from creating strict rules about hairstyles and beard care. As with most things based in bureaucracy, his hair had to be clean cut and his beard was to remain at regulation length according to his height. He'd nearly passed out laughing at the diagrams included as well as the tips on how best to keep his beard hair healthy on the high seas. It was clear a lot of the "information" provided stemmed from old wives tales and superstitions because an actual conversation with a dwarf was hardly possible what with their mysterious culture so well hidden from the rest of polite society. He sighed at his own cynicism. His parents had warned him about the benign racism of the Meritocracy. Feryn had warned him as well. They'd been arguing about it, again, the day he died.

But here he was, Zolf Smith, sailor on the high seas like he'd always dreamed. It didn't matter that he'd practically run away from home. It didn't matter that he wanted to be as far away from the mines as possible. It didn't matter that he blamed himself for Feryn's death. He was on the ocean now. He was part of something bigger than himself, somewhere where he could disappear as a crew member aboard _The Triumph of Reason_. A new life, a new Zolf.

Tossing the pamphlet aside, he quickly made the single plait and tied it off with a bit of string. Finding a pair of scissors, he cut the braid at a little more than the halfway point from his chin. He needed enough hair to retain the braid at a shorter length. Another sigh and maybe some unshed tears, but he tossed the severed end of the braid into the water and, just as quickly as before, braided his now shortened beard.

A new life, a new Zolf. What did a wad of hair matter in the long run?

***

The crew of the _Sea Troll_ called them pigtails. Erika - Captain Brijnholm - referred to them as fish fins. He wasn't sure which he liked or despised more, but either way the new style seemed to fit him as life on board the pirating vessel carried on. He'd done it mostly as a joke for himself. He couldn't remember if his mother had told him any stories or revealed the symbolism behind mutton chop braiding. It was just hair braided differently than the regulation style he'd sported for the last seven years in the navy. No meaning behind it at all.

Except it did have meaning, didn't it? He'd thrown himself into the sea as the _Triumph_ fell apart. He'd put his faith in Poseidon to either save him or give him a quick death. There was no one left in Chislinghull to mourn him if he died. He was just a sailor and the sea was his home. Who better to decide his fate than the god of such a powerful force of nature? The ocean wasn't kind to him, churning him about, nearly drowning him in the process, but he woke up to calm skies, buoyed by a piece of driftwood. There was a dolphin carved into the plank. To some it could be interpreted as a sick joke. To Zolf, it was a miracle.

The _Sea Troll_ appeared not long after and here he was, a castoff sailor turned pirate priest. He could've asked them to let him off somewhere along the coast. He'd find civilization eventually and with that would be a Meritocratic office. It would be easy enough to go back to the navy, but that pull in his chest that called him to the water so many years ago told him to stay put. He was needed here. For what, he didn't know, but that was the point of faith, right? If Poseidon wanted him to be a pirate, then he'd be a pirate and being a pirate meant looking the part.

The fish fins - mutton chops - pigtails were new, but he was quickly getting used to them just as he was getting used to his new family of scallywags and ruffians.

***

He suspected Sasha was sneaking into his room to undo his braids simply because she could. Running off into the night, stalking the rooftops was her favorite activity as they settled into their rooms in Paris. She was put off by the posh hotel and her newfound possession of a lavish suite, a gift from her mysteriously absent cousin. It was a lot to take in and he could see the restlessness of youth radiating off of her as she struggled with how to react to her new situation. Of course, Hamid and Bertie were indulging in the lifestyle with which they were accustomed, but Zolf could sympathize with Sasha's predicament. To go from nothing to too much was dizzying. She needed the space to get her bearings and he was more than happy to give it to her. He could handle the others.

Why she chose to target his mutton chops was the more puzzling element to her escapades. Was she testing her skills? She was plenty good at sneaking. He'd seen it first hand in London and Other London. Nothing needed improving as far as he was concerned. Was she testing his response? Zolf wasn't a light sleeper nor was he a heavy sleeper, but somewhere in between depending on whatever state of peril he found himself. Maybe this was her way of telling him to be more on guard? Fair enough. Their work for the Meritocrats was escalating in danger with each new mission. It wouldn't hurt to keep his senses sharp even while sleeping. Maybe she was testing Le Triumph's security protocols? No, that was the least likely of scenarios. Sasha was her own security protocol.

Then it occurred to him that undoing his braids was her way of having fun. She didn't care too much for Bertie. Hamid was kind, but more delicate than the people she ran with in Other London. Zolf was closer in age and attitude to the friends and acquaintances she'd left behind. He wasn't much of a talker either, not like Hamid or Bertie, so their interactions were largely based on shrugs, eyebrow lifts, and sentences consisting of monosyllabic words. Whatever friendship they had, it was familiar, safe. So, of course, teasing and pranks were a sure sign of trust and safety.

Meeting the team at breakfast, Zolf caught Sasha's perpetually sleep deprived eyes as he finished his left braid. He sat near her, grabbing an assortment of items from the extravagant buffet the hotel had sent to their suite. Bertie and Hamid were going on about something, probably the food or, more likely, some of their fonder memories of past visits to Paris.

Making sure they didn't hear, Zolf leaned in closer to Sasha and said in a hushed voice, "If yer goin' thru the trouble o' sneakin' in an' undoing my hair, then at least have the temerity to plait it differently like a decent thief."

She didn't miss a beat as she stuffed a forkful of eggs into her mouth, then a few pieces of bacon. Her only acknowledgement of his challenge was a quick wink between bites of a scone.

The next morning, the mutton chops remained, but they were adorned with pink ribbons, bows, and a several tiny bells that chimed with even the slightest movement.

It was the hardest he'd laughed in ages.

***

Japan was the last place he'd expected to end up in the course of saving the world. Then again, he'd never expected to go anywhere beyond Chislinghull for a good portion of his life. He was the son of salt-of-the-earth miners; a lowly sailor turned pirate turned mercenary turned anti-establishment operative. And now he was playing hero to a cause he'd all but abandoned, a cleric without a party to heal, a dwarf once again without a family on which to rely. He'd done it to himself, he knew that, but the pain of losing Sasha and Hamid was still fresh even after a year and a half. He'd moved on from the navy, he'd moved on from the pirates, but Sasha and Hamid were different. They were family, or...they had been. Seeing Wilde again, working with him, brought back bittersweet memories and, on days like today, he found himself sitting outside the inn they'd commandeered reminiscing and drinking away his sorrows.

Wilde pointed out that he stroked his beard more when he sat outside with his sadness. He couldn't say why that particular tick started no more than he could recall when his hair started going white. One evening he went to bed a blond, the next his hair was the color of fresh powder on mountaintops. It was gradual enough to go unnoticed and then it was just familiar. He told himself the single braid was a necessary change. He could produce a plait with his eyes shut and, given his current line of work, he didn't have time for elaborate styles or meaningful displays of emotion as interpreted through hair. There was no one around who'd know what they meant anyway. He wasn't in England and he certainly wasn't around other dwarves. Japan was so far away from the life he'd known and there were times when he welcomed the distance. The mission was of the upmost importance. Focus on the mission. The rest could be dealt with if later...if he survived.

Out of the corner of his eye, he spied a little girl watching him from the other end of the porch. She was around seven-years-old, maybe eight, and watched him with the kind of curiosity only children possess. She was the innkeeper's granddaughter, sprightly and rambunctious when unobserved by adults, but shy and courteous under an authoritative eye. He smiled and waved, which she interpreted as an invitation to sit next to him.

"Zolf," he said, pointing at himself.

She giggled and pointed at him. "Zolf!"

"And you?" he asked, turning his pointer finger on her.

"Miwa," she answered.

"Nice to meet you, Miwa," he said. He wasn't sure if she understood any of that other than her name. In his mind, he cursed himself for not at least attempting to learn Japanese or not walking around with a steady supply of potions for speaking languages. But Miwa appeared content with the silence that hung over them and he wasn't in the mood to put anymore effort into communicating beyond simple gestures. After a few minutes of sitting in each other's company, he noticed two things. One, he was stroking his beard again. Two, Miwa was staring at his beard intently. He hadn't braided it as he usually did during his morning routine. There were no reconnaissance missions or supply drops for a while, so he'd decided on being a layabout for the day. "You know how to braid?"

"Huh?" she asked, confused by his jumbled words.

"Miwa," he said, pointing at her. Then he pointed at his beard of snow white hair. "Braid?"

"Buh. Rayd?" she asked, looking to him for confirmation.

"Yes!" he exclaimed and began to pantomime braiding over his beard. "Braid!"

"Buh. Rayd!" she exclaimed.

"Zolf," Wilde said as he exited the inn. Looking up from his sitting position, he noticed Wilde had a small bottle in his hand that he held out to him. "Here. Should help with the language barrier."

"I think we were doin' jus' fine," he said, petulantly. Wilde gave him that smug grin he loathed and adored. He took the potion anyway.

"There's a good dwarf," Wilde said. Before walking into the inn, his fingers brushed the hair at the nape of his neck. "Might need a trim soon."

Zolf ignored the contact and the heat rushing to the tips of his ears. He downed the potion and waited thirty seconds before speaking to Miwa again. "Is the weird man gone?"

"Yes. Grandpa said he's your boss," she said. To Zolf, she was speaking perfect English and he surmised that, to her, he was speaking perfect Japanese. The wonders of magic. "But he doesn't treat you like he's your boss."

"That's correct because...can you keep a secret?" he asked, conspiratorially.

"Yeah! I keep loads of secrets from my brothers!"

"Good. This is just between you an' me. I'm the boss," he said, winking slyly. "No one ever suspects the dwarf, Miwa."

"You're funny, Zolf!" she laughed. He couldn't help but laugh with her.

"You've got less than an hour, Zolf!" Wilde called from inside, breaking up their laughter.

Sobering up with a smile fixed to his face, Zolf presented his beard for inspection. "I seem to have neglected my beard this morning. Would you mind helping an old dwarf?"

"How old are you?" she asked.

"500 years old."

"Really?"

"No."

She pouted. "200 years old?"

"Maybe."

She grinned, satisfied with the answer, and for the next hour he chatted with Miwa while she worked. He watched her fumble the strands occasionally, watched her frustration with her tiny hands trying to hold more than they were equipped to handle. He was patient with her, letting her start and stop, encouraging without being condescending. He instructed her the way his mother had decades ago, telling her stories about ancient dwarves and the courting mishaps of his Great Great Uncle Bophurus.

By the time the hour was up, she'd managed a mostly perfect braid.


	2. Wilde Went A-Courtin'

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An extra chapter based on an idea I had that didn't fit the flow of the initial story.

It was over. Years of fighting for the soul of the world, combating mad scientists and compromised agents of the simulacra, and now they stood victorious. A group that, by all rights, shouldn't have been able to thwart Shoin and his bio-organic zombies yet here they were, celebrating and toasting to the defeat of the plague that had nearly brought them all to the brink of destruction. There were some close calls, to be sure. Zolf had only just been given approval to leave the infirmary after several days bed rest following his long shot spell in the final battle. He'd tapped into his own life force, channeling it through the positive energy of his healing spell to propel Hamid, Azu, and Cel to full health. He didn't remember much after that, just sounds and blurred images before darkness consumed him. According to Azu he'd depleted himself into a state of limbo, hovering between life and death while she and the local healers pumped healing energy into his body and force fed him health potions until he finally showed signs of recovery. She also said Wilde never left his side, which surprised Zolf since he wasn't in the room when he first came to consciousness.

The celebration was still going, but Zolf found himself wandering outside to escape the noise and slight claustrophobia of so many people crammed into a small inn. He carefully situated his prosthetic legs, still wobbly on his feet after convalescing for so long, and sat on the porch. He'd eaten well, there was sake in his belly, and the night air greeted him free of storms for the first time in a long time. Stroking his free-flowing beard, he sighed contentedly at what he and his team had accomplished. 

"Giving up on the party already, Zolf?" Wilde asked as he sat next to him, placing two glasses of whiskey between them. A safe barrier that left room for either of them to advance or retreat. 

"Never was the type for parties," Zolf said. He picked up the glass closest to him, watching as Wilde leisurely reached out for the remaining glass. He smiled slightly, not enough for it to reach his eyes or stretch his scar, a practiced move from a man known for his vanity. The moonlight framed them in pale blues and whites and Zolf realized the scar on Wilde's face practically glowed. He wondered if his new scars did the same. "What about you? Surely there's some young soldier in there worth flirtin' with for a vict'ry dalliance."

Wilde made an affirming noise, but quietly sipped his drink. "Perhaps. I happen to think the most interesting person is out here."

"You can't be serious!" Zolf barked, laughing deep in his belly. Wilde wasn't laughing and Zolf abruptly cut himself off. He was used to the more somber aspects of Wilde's personality following the fall of the Meritocrats, but there was something in the seriousness of his gaze that left Zolf practically breathless. There was a determined look, a hard line of resolve on his face that Zolf only ever saw when he really wanted something. Without the glasses in the barren space, Wilde inched closer. His long, nimble fingers closed the distance, gathering a handful of his beard. With delicate, skilled hands, he separated the collected hair into three sections and casually began to craft a small braid with only the moonlight to guide him.

"While you were...asleep, I happened to do a bit of reading during my extended visits at your bedside," he said, conversationally.

Zolf gulped, finally starting to feel the dizzying combination of sake and whiskey. Or, maybe it wasn't the alcohol at all. "Is - is that so?"

"Yes. One of the books that caught my eye concerned the language of braids some dwarven cultures use," he said. Wilde glanced down into Zolf's eyes for the briefest of moments to make sure he was paying attention. He was. "And, wouldn't you know it, there was a whole chapter about West Country dwarves and their use of courting braids to show interest."

"A common practice, yes," Zolf said, glad that his voice didn't crack this time. Wilde's hands stopped their fluid motions, leaving a thin braid tied with thread from the frayed edge of Wilde's scarf. Their faces were close - so close - but Wilde moved back, letting the empty space settle between them with a tease of a smile.

"The mission's over, Zolf. Consider my intentions known," Wilde said. He picked up his drink and stood. Before he left, he let his fingers dance across the nape of Zolf's neck, giving the short hairs a brisk tug. "Still needs a trim."

And he was gone. Zolf stared at his backside as Wilde slipped back into the party, quickly adopting the semblance of his old self for his own entertainment. He could feel the heat in his ears and cheeks. He downed the rest of the whiskey in one gulp, staring into the moon as if it would provide answers. When none were forthcoming, he leaned back and sighed.

"Brave new world, indeed."

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [A Little Help](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22643743) by [Miri1984](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miri1984/pseuds/Miri1984)




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